


When You're Older

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Egbertcest, Implied Incest, Incest, M/M, because I thought to myself, how can I become even more nototrious for effed up stuf other people won't touch, look at how many typose that has, what the heck, wow okay I need to stop posting things at half past midnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s your dad, but he’s not. He loves you, but not the way you want him to. You want him to be yours, all yours. You want to be able to give him everything he needs, you want him to never need anything more than you. And you know that isn’t going to happen as long as he keeps treating you like his damn kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Older

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryingalonewithegbertcest](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cryingalonewithegbertcest).



          He raps on your door, yelling at you that it's time to get up, and you scowl, but not because you have to go to school.

          When you come down the stairs, feet slapping fast against the carpeted steps in a heavy staccato, he's waiting at the bottom, giving you a stern look and asking if you remembered to brush your teeth. You roll your eyes and turn to trudge back up with a muttered "Geeze," hoping he doesn't see the way your face flames red, hoping even more he doesn't know why.  
          Hoping a little bit that he does.

          When you come back down to the smell of breakfast cooking, finding him at the stove with a plate stacked with bacon, flipping eggs in bacon grease, you give him your first real smile of the day, teeth flashing wide in that way you know he likes. You sling your backpack down to rest next to the dining table and wait until the eggs are done to throw your arms around him in a hug, giving a muffled "Good morning," into his chest. He ruffles your hair and says "Good morning, son" back, but it's not until he asks if you've done all your homework that your heart sinks again.  
          "Yeah," you mutter, and pull back, side-stepping him to get to the plates and dish out breakfast for the both of you. He opens the fridge and digs out some orange juice while you're at it, and in less than a minute you're both seated across from eachother at the kitchen table, digging in with gusto. The way you move around eachother is effortless, like a well-choreographed dance, you'd say, if you put any stock in dance. No, it's more like a magician's trick, both of you exactly where you need to be when you need to be, aware of eachother's movements without ever having to glance over at eachother—though you do, frequently, watching your dad's ease in the kitchen, noting his still-damp hair under his hat, the scent of buttercream frosting that follows him everywhere, the little jingle he hums that you played for him last week—and it's just so domestic and perfect you want to get up and hug him again, so you do. Up close, you can hear his heartbeat, feel his strong arms around you, and forget, for a second, that your relationship isn't what you want it to be, will probably never be what you want it to be.  
          It's also the perfect opportunity to stick a "kick me!" sign to his back. Score one for your prankster's gambit.  
          You clear the dishes after breakfast, stepping up the pace a little when you notice what time it is. Geeze, maybe you spent a little too much time daydreaming. Your dad ruffles your hair from behind, stepping up beside you with a handtowel to dry off the dishes, saying you don't have to worry about being late, he's got time to drop you off at school today. Your heart beats a little faster, and you elbow him, joking about how he's already maxed out his gentleman stat, he doesn't have to make sure you get home safe too. You realize it's a weird, all-tangled-up thing to say the moment it leaves your mouth, and hope he doesn't notice. He might not have, if you hadn't been handing him a plate just then, fingers touching as you passed it off, not letting go for just a second longer than necessary, letting that brush of fingers go from casual chance to meaningful. He gives you an odd look, brow scrunched up under his hat, and you shut off the water, turning away from him and wiping your hands on your pants. He scolds you, handing you the handtowel instead, and you stare steadfastly at the wall, not sure if it makes you more the kid to ignore him, or to backtalk.  
          You guess you ignore him by default, because you haven't thought of any clever retort before he's stepping up next to you and asking if you like it, and that's when you realize you've been staring at a clown painting for the past minute or so. Your dad goes on to say he saw it in a storefront on his way home yesterday, and thought it would fit just perfectly in the kitchen. You bite your lip, trying not to show how angry—aw, fuck it.  
          You show him how angry you are. Or, not angry, exactly. Frustrated. Stressed out. Scared. Desperate. You wish your dad would see you as you, as John, but he won't. All he ever sees you as is a kid. His son. He caters to interests you've grown out of (did you ever really like clowns? You can't remember, but that he hasn't noticed you've grown to hate them now makes you feel something black and ugly in the pit of your stomach), he sees your displays of emotional depth as temper tantrums (throwing spare cakes is definitely a legitimate way to display emotional depth), and he's always, always _parenting_ you.  
          He's your dad, but he's _not_. He loves you, but not the way you want him to. You want him to be yours, all yours. You want to be able to give him everything he needs, you want him to never need anything more than you. And you know that isn't going to happen as long as he keeps treating you like his damn _kid_.  
          You yell that he's not your real dad. He throws a cake at you. You know it's not because he's angry, but god, you wish it was. At least that would give you something to work with, instead of this infuriating patience and understanding that is just so _fatherly_. You run upstairs, trailing frosting and bits of french-vanilla, hoping the mess at least covers the way your face has gone beet-red, the way your eyes are brimming but just won't spill over.

          You come back down a few minutes later in new clothes, baked goods thoroughly scrubbed from your person. He opens the door for you silently, letting you lead the way to the car now idling in the driveway.  
          The car ride reeks of awkwardness, and you feel a twinge of regret that you ruined the chance for some quality time to really talk to him. You start prattling just to fill the silence, telling him about what Jade's been up to, and these two new friends she introduced you to named Dave and Rose. He doesn't ask if you're being safe or question the validity of befriending strangers on the internet, and you warm to the subject, feeling like you've actually got something important and adult to tell him, having such awesome friends from all over the world (well, only Jade is outside the US, but that still totally counts).  
          By the time you get to school, you've forgiven him for being such a dad. On impulse, you lean in to give him a kiss goodbye, right on the lips, and shut the car door before he can say anything about it. If he asks you later, you can say it was a prank, but you don't think he'll ask you. He thinks of goodbye kisses as perfectly innocent. He used to give them to you all the time, when you were younger. He only stopped when…when you got older.  
          Because they didn't feel so innocent to him anymore?  
          That thought almost stops you in your tracks, a grin breaking out across your face. You practically skip to class, so excited you don't even notice until lunch the sign on your back that says "MY DAD IS SO PROUD OF ME."


End file.
